


Still Can't Say

by Skyepilot



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coulson's overwhelming feelings for Skye, F/M, Kissing, Nightmares, Romance, Skye's Superpowers, skoulsonfest2k15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3163991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/pseuds/Skyepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skoulsonfest2k15 - Day 2: Nightmares. Coulson has nightmares and Skye is afraid to sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Can't Say

The nightmares surprise him the most.

After they found the map, something inside him clicked, and he was able to sleep again for the first time in months.

He had slept peacefully, though, that first night. And the next. And on.

When he wakes up in a sweaty panic on another first night (the first after escaping the temple), he stares at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to touch him again. Just as his eyes begin to get heavy and close, he's right back where he left off.

And the night after the next as well. And another, to the point he's beginning to dread going to sleep.

It's noticed, as much as he tries to cover over it. The usual parties inquiring during the daytime if he's okay, noticing one too many cups of coffee.

Like being terrorized, by his own mind. Not like before, where something took control of him. No, this is something sneaking, waiting in some dark corner.

So tonight, as he's getting his bearings and sitting up straight in his bed, feeling his shirt sticking to his back, it takes him a moment to recalibrate before he gets up from under the topsheet and leaves the room.

He doesn't know what time it is, only that he's not ready to shut his eyes again. It's always the same thing.

Splashing some water on his face helps and he changes his shirt and makes his way up to the office.

Gathering a glass and the bottle from the shelf behind his desk, he pulls back a chair from one of the other tables and puts his feet up while the record player spins.

The song is a Davis/Coltrane tune, he can't recall which.

It's not helping. There's too much longing in it.

Too close to the way these emotions feel just under the surface. He wants to switch the record.

"What are you doing up?"

He puts his hand on the glass of scotch on the table in front of him, doesn't answer right away.

She walks over to him all the same and stands close by, her arms wrapped around herself.

"I can't fall sleep," she adds.

He looks up at her. The expression he's wearing isn't quite a charming one. It more has the feel of "What do you want me to do about it?"

Then he says, "Pull up a chair. And a glass, if you're so inclined."

"I've been sleeping with the lights on," she sighs, going into confessional mode and messing around on the shelf behind him.

"Don't like being in the dark?" he asks, watching her sit down and pour herself some of his scotch.

She shakes her head, and takes a sip, feeling it at the back of her throat.

He smiles at her and shrugs. "Nightmares."

"No, I haven't been having any, it's just the darkness, and the room is small. I just feel like..."

"I meant me," he said, frowning over at her, thinking about her feeling trapped in a place where she should feel the safest.

"Oh," she said, sitting back in the chair. "Sorry, I just..."

He touches his hand to her forearm. "No, it's okay, I wanted to know. If you wanted to tell."

Her eyes lock with his for a moment, like she's looking for something there. She's become difficult to read in the past few weeks. He knows she's hiding things from him, but he's not sure why.

The realization makes him chuckle and he breaks her gaze and looks down. He hadn't made the connection between the possibility of losing her and her pulling away.

"What?" she asked, her brows furrowing slightly.

He takes his hand off of her arm, wondering now if that was what she was puzzling out. He'd left it there for too long.

"I have nightmares about the temple," he says, swirling around the scotch in the glass before taking a long sip.

They have talked about all of this. In the ways you would expect. About Trip, about understanding the process she'd been through, about her father.

But this sort of thing, they've managed to avoid. Or carefully on purpose.

"Everything inside of you wanted to get to that city," she said. "Literally."

"And you ended up there, even though you never wanted..."

Now she's leaning towards him, putting her hand on top of his. "Coulson. You can't blame yourself for that."

He tosses back the rest of his glass and takes his hand away from hers to pour himself another. She must be able to feel the tension. The way she reads these kinds of things.

"Ward kidnapped me at gunpoint and took me to my father," she continued, following his movements with her eyes.

"I knew what would happen if you went there," he said. "I should've told you what your father said."

"It wouldn't have changed that it did," she said. "And yes, you should've told me. We agree about that," she said, sipping at her scotch.

For some reason, hearing petulance in her voice makes him feel better. Like she might be interested in punishing him for where he's screwed this up.

"What happens in your nightmare?" she asks.

Or not.

He stands up suddenly and moves to change the record once the trumpet starts to get too aggressive.

The sound of the needle moving off the record creates a bubble of silence in the room.

"I can't find you," he answers her after a moment.

Her eyes are on his back, he can feel them. He doesn't want to have to elaborate on this.

"But you _did_ find me," she says, her voice sounding very soft and warm.

"It's not..." he doesn't want to elaborate.

Hearing her get out of the chair almost sends him into a panic, which _almost_ gets worse, if that's possible, when he feels her hand rest on his back.

She has no idea at all what this is stirring up in him.

Or maybe she does, because she takes her hand away just as quickly.

"You did find me," she said. "I'm not going away."

He bites his lower lip. He knows he should say something simple, just end the conversation right there.

"Yes, thank you."

"I'm going to try to get some sleep," she says. Her voice sounds further away now.

"You should, too."

He looks back at the door when he knows she's gone.

  
***

  
The next time it happens, just before he walks into his office, he has the oddest feeling.

It's his office, but it feels like he's the one intruding.

There's a funk record on. Sly & The Family Stone.

It sounds defiant, and especially at 3 a.m.

As he peeks inside, like he might be caught at any minute, he sees her standing there in concentration, looking at a coffee cup sitting on the table top.

His mind shifts from caution to curiosity and he finds himself wondering in.

"What is that?" he asks her, when he sees her touch the edge of the cup gingerly then suddenly pull back.

She spins on him, startled, hiding her hands.

"More nightmares?" she asks, deflecting, as he comes closer to her.

"Yes," he says, eyes glancing over at the cup. It's just a mug with water in it.

She lowers her gaze and looks towards the door. Like she wants to escape.

"Taking back the night?" he asks, walking to the record player and looking at the sleeve for _There's a Riot Going On_.

They've been avoiding each other, but here they are again.

"Something like that," she says, relaxing a little.

There's a defensiveness about her. He hasn't seen this side of her in a long, long time.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Her eyes flicker up at his. "I don't think so."

He nods and gives a heavy sigh as he goes behind his desk to pour himself a finger of scotch.

"He made this album after MLK was assassinated," he says, sitting down in a chair.

"Dark times," she said, sitting down in the seat next to him.

"Chaotic," he replied. He took a sip from his glass.

"I know you're hiding something from me."

She smiled slightly, not pleasantly, and linked her fingers together on the table. "That would make two of us, then."

He puts the glass down on the surface, then his palm on the top, running his hand over it.

"It's not that I can't find you," he starts, talking about his nightmares. "It's why I want to."

When he manages to look at her, he can see she's drawn back a little, but there is still compassion there.

It always draws him in, it never fails.

"I don't want to make things worse," he said, his hand back on the glass, licking at his lower lip in thought.

"Coulson."

He should know better, than to do this to her. It's late and they're both tired. Struggling. The scotch was a stupid idea, he thinks, as he finishes it.

"Phil."

That gets his attention. His eyes are back on hers, and he closes them again when he feels her hand on his knee. His hand touches her face, hesitating, but then she presses her mouth against his.

He lets her for a moment, enjoying it, before the guilt takes hold.

"No," he says quietly, running his hand down her arm as he pulls away. Wanting to do the right thing.

"Why?" she asks. "At least tell me why. Why you came after me. Why you're telling me this."

His mouth opens slightly, wordless, staring back at her challenging him.

She's right. He knows why. What he's afraid of saying.

"You should know," she said, standing up. "I can do things now..."

Her hand reaches out for the mug and like before, she touches it.

Only, he can see there are tiny ripples forming on the surface of the water.

His eyes widen as he stands up to look more closely and she stops.

"Because," she said. "I'm dangerous. Just like my father."

"No," he said, looking over at her. "No, no."

He hugs her to him and she curls herself up against him, like she's trying to hide.

"You're not dangerous," he whispers, brushing his fingers against her forehead.

"It happened first in the temple, I think," she explains. "When Trip was there."

He understands now.

She's talking about the earthquake.

  
***

Things have improved during waking hours.

He knows her secret. She knows he's a mess.

He's not having the nightmares as often as he used to. Tonight's the exception, but he's not sure why, since they've been spending more time together, working at her powers.

It went the same.

He goes down into the tunnel after telling May he wants to fix it. But he's lying. He knows he can't fix it. He just wants a moment. With her. Just one.

It's dark and the tunnels change and he says her name over and over again until he's tired. He won't find her. But he had something to say to her, and he still does.

Only now, he can't.

Now he's alone and it's empty. And dark. He still can't say it. Even though he feels it.

He lies back on the office floor, listening to Wilson Pickett singing about how _It's Too Late_ and stares at the ceiling. He closes his eyes. Maybe he can fall asleep here and it will be different somehow?

"I _must_ be bad when you start out on the floor."

He smiles a little.

"I was just about to doze off," he says, opening his eyes. "What's your excuse?"

"I had a nightmare," she said, sitting down crosslegged on the floor next to him. "I woke up and my bed was shaking. Couldn't tell if it was the dream, or..." 

His fingers touch the heart monitor on her wrist, looking at the reading. Normal.

"I'm sorry," he sighed, letting go of her hand and crossing his against his stomach. "Probably just the dream. The sensors would've picked it up."

"Thought you were done with the nightmares," she said, toying with the ends of her fingers.

"So did I," he answered back, turning his head to look into her eyes.

"I need to tell you something."

She raises her eyebrows. It's a familiar expression. He knows this face. Understanding. A little weary. He can see her getting ready for whatever he's about to hit her up with.

Sitting up, he puts his hand on her shoulder, and leans slowly, until his lips are just touching hers. He starts like that, bringing his hand to cup her face, when she doesn't pull away.

He just kisses her.

When she gets over the shock of it, as she starts to move with him, he reaches for her waist, kissing her more desperately, pulling her against him as her breath catches and he has her in his lap, his fingers on her face as he lowers them both to the floor.

"The way I feel about you," he said, touching his thumb to her chin. "It's like this. All the time."

She stares down at him like she's not sure she believes him, but then she kisses him and he chases, open-mouthed, her tongue deepening it, and his hands are on her hips, tugging her into his, pressing back against her and he's exploring her mouth, while her hand runs up the back of his neck, making him shiver under her touch.

While she kisses back, she bunches the bottom of his t-shirt in her hands and pulls it up and over his head as he lifts his arms, then rejoins the kiss.

He thinks about his scar for a moment, about how long it's been since he's done something like this, but gets completely lost in watching her face as her hand traces down his neck and over his chest, over his scar, down his stomach as she sits up.

He wants to kiss her again when she looks at him like that.

Instead, she lifts her sweatshirt, and when it's gone, his hands follow the contours of her neck, trace her collarbones, then cup her breasts in his palms, feeling her push into him, wanting to move with her.

Sometimes words fail him.

He's decided to not use words.


End file.
